


Life After

by Lyl



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Apocalypse, Community: apocalyptothon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:06:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyl/pseuds/Lyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael's become more soldier than spy these days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life After

**Author's Note:**

> Written for apocalyptothon on LJ, therefore 'APOCALYPSE'!! Don't say I didn't warn you.
> 
> Prompt: With the government in ruins Michael's skills are once again in high demand despite the burn.
> 
> Spoilers up to mid-season 2.

Nobody goes into the suburbs anymore. What was once an idyllic land of children laughing and timeless Americana, has turned into a desolate wasteland of grey depression. Michael hated the suburbs before, but it’s nothing compared to his vile hatred of them now. The new American ghetto, filled with wild animals, rabid people and an oppressive weight of death that Michael hasn’t felt since that time in the Congo.

Walking along the deserted streets, an M-16 up and ready, his eyes scan every crumbling brick, every caved-in roof and every overgrown plant, wishing he was anywhere else. Danger lurks behind every shadow – sometimes the danger _is_ the shadow – and Michael has learned the hard way to be prepared for everything.

“Two o’clock, Mike,” rasps a voice in his ear, Sam still one of the few who can get away with calling him Mike.

Michael keeps his gun trained forward, but lets his eyes flick to the shadow ahead and to his right; a shadow with one too many bumps to be cast by the slowly rusting Miata.

A tilt of his head conveys the danger to the three men behind him, all of whom are well versed in the art of reading Michael’s every move, just like he is theirs. They’ve worked hard to become this coordinated, this tightly bound together, and the training Michael insisted on pays off every time one of his teams comes back alive. Two spotters and four on the ground, and Michael would trust every one of them with his life. In fact, he has.

Another step forward is all it takes to get the figure in the shadow to attack, and a bullet is all it takes to stop it.

~!~

It started with a few stray coughs that spread through networks of friends and family and public locations. By the time the first wave of patients started coughing up black blood and lung tissue, it was too late to contain the outbreak. Every city had at least one person infected; no town too small, no location too remote.

And it happened within a matter of days.

The boys in Washington went ape shit over terrorists; the terrorists calmly held up their hands and said ‘the will of Allah’ or whatever god they were fighting for; the rest of the world sent prayers, and air dropped supplies and relief workers, even as they were cutting off all contact with the US.

News outlets had 24/7 round tables and useless updates on how much was _not_ being done, and what should be done better in the future. No one mentioned that if this outbreak wasn’t solved soon, there wouldn’t be a future to care about it.

The media, in all their glorious originality, dubbed the disease the Black Death, but they seemed to be the only ones to call it that. A reminder of the plague was not something the average person wanted to hear every day, so the names varied far and wide.

The only common name was Death.

~!~

“Did you get it?” demanded Madeline as Michael stepped out from the van. Still in full combat gear and splattered with any number of disgusting substances, he looked and smelled dangerous and mean.

That didn’t stop his mother.

“Yeah. In the back,” he told her, not bothering to roll his eyes. His team would do that for him, and it was much more satisfying to have his mother yell at any of them than at him.

“Is this all?” she asked as she pawed through the box of medical supplies in the back, and Michael really did roll his eyes this time.

“_Under_ the box, Mom,” he said, moving towards her.

“Oh, Michael,” she said, and he could hear the waver in her voice. “This will help so many people.”

Michael tilted his head back in embarrassed gratitude, calling over his shoulder, “Let’s get this stuff into the clinic.”

He hadn’t taken more than a step when he found his arms full of his mother, hugging him as if he wasn’t covered in gore and other nasty stuff, whispering a heartfelt ‘thank you’ into his chest. The rest of the guys received the same treatment to some degree, which he was glad of – less teasing that way.

“Come on,” he called out, motioning them to move. He wanted to shower and change as soon as he could. Plus, he needed a beer.

“First round’s on me,” Michael called out.

“Of course first round’s on you,” groused Sam as he hauled a plastic bin past Michael and into the medical clinic Madeline volunteered at. “The first round’s always free.”

“Hey, not my fault Oleg likes me better.”

“Michael, I want you to come meet someone,” said his mother, tugging lightly on his arm. Michael was familiar with the tone she used, and resigned himself to being thrown into something he’d rather not be involved in.

These types of situations were becoming more and more common, but at least his mom had become more discerning in the people she steered him towards. He couldn’t take care of everyone, so she’d pulled back and only talked to him about the ones she felt strongly about, or who really couldn’t go anywhere else.

Usually, it involved helping a client’s family member, making Michael aware that his mother was trying to grieve for Nate in her own way, by trying to help as many families as possible.

“Can I at least shower first?”

~!~

Quarantines didn’t contain the infections, drugs didn’t slow the disease and modern medicine was useless. Once someone was infected, they were dead within days, and flimsy physical barriers barely slowed the spread. When the third round of relief workers died despite every control measure, they stopped sending them in.

The contagion laughed in the face of surgical masks and latex gloves, and stuck out its tongue at hazmat suits. Air filters didn’t catch it, and UV lights didn’t kill it. It was a stubborn bastard, clinging to any surface it found, but only surviving briefly in the open air. The only real protection anyone could find was a certain amount of physical distance, so three foot thick walls were built to keep the sick from infecting the healthy.

Some people seemed to have a natural immunity to it, but most of the manpower was being aimed at useless containment and negligible relief, which left little for researching the whys and hows. But even the most oblivious of the public could see a pattern, if they wanted to. Ignorance of those who survived was sometimes the only way many people could cope with their own losses.

~!~

“Hey, that the latest satellite images?” asked Ray, moving to look over the pictures scattered across the table. Michael nodded absently, one hand tracing over routes and trajectories, trying to find a pattern.

Ray had been one of the first people Michael had approached at the start – after Sam and Fiona, of course – and he hadn’t had a moment of regret since.

Michael’s become more soldier than spy these days, but being adaptable to any situation is at the core of being a spy.

“Yeah. I want a team to have a look over here.” Michael pointed to an area on the map beyond the limits of the current population. “There’s been some activity since last month, and I want to know what’s going on.”

Most of the remaining population stayed well within the new city boundaries, but a few families had decided to try living further afield. The sudden occupation of an abandoned area had Michael concerned, as no one had announced they were leaving the city limits. Most of the time, it turned out to be the new generation of criminals trying to start up a business of some sort – drugs, alcohol, gambling, even fake medicine.

Michael liked to nip those problems in the bud.

“Chato’s team would be happy to get out of the city for a while tomorrow,” said Ray, keeping his tone flat and dry.

Michael hung his head as he cautiously asked, “What did they do this time?”

“Something about an armed assault on Mrs Cambridge’s herb garden,” was all the other man would say. Michael really didn’t want to know the details – he had enough problems without fielding incidents between his guys and the civilian population. That’s what he had Ray for. The former Army officer had become invaluable to Michael over the last year, becoming Michael’s XO without him even realizing it. It had worked out well so far, and Sam seemed to like him, if all the Navy vs Army jibes were to be believed.

“Right. Let’s send them on a field trip, then,” agreed Michael, willing to punt the boys out of the city if it would calm the stubborn harridan down. Amber Cambridge was opinionated and fierce, but only when she wanted something. And if you didn’t do it fast enough, then she was perfectly happy to reign unholy hell down upon everyone in her sight.

_His mother_ was careful to stay on her good side.

“What did your mother have for you?” Ray asked later as they were clearing away the images and maps that covered most of their unofficial HQ. Michael didn’t bother asking how Ray knew he was taking on another case, because it usually just gave him a headache.

“Girl named Nadia came to the clinic yesterday. Her sister – Melina – is missing,” explained Michael, rolling up one of the larger maps. “Says Melina went to some guy in a bar to get some medicine for her. The pills came, but Melina disappeared. Nadia made her way to the clinic from sector 2 because she didn’t trust where the medication came from.”

“’Some guy in a bar’? That’s not a lot to go on,” said Ray.

Michael looked at Ray and smiled very tightly and fakely, “Melina apparently met this ‘pill guy’ in the Ono Bar in sector 4.”

“Fucking mob,” swore Ray, and Michael just nodded in total and complete agreement. Organized crime had adapted wonderfully to the new state of being, and were taking advantage of everything, and everyone, they could get their hands on. So far, Michael had been happy to leave them to their own devices, seeing as he had enough problems to solve without adding to them, but that was about to change.

“So, we going in tomorrow?” Ray prompted, staring at Michael as if daring him to argue with him. Michael bit his lip and held his peace – they’d done this dance a dozen times already, and Michael had lost every time. Michael’s team would back him up, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He didn’t know whether he should curse them or thank them, and usually decided to say nothing.

Deliberately changing the subject, Michael asked “How are we on munitions?”

“Running low on the explosives.”

Michael’s head dropped and his shoulders slumped in resignation. “Dammit.” This was one more problem that he had to deal with.

“Want me to go?” asked Ray.

Michael was grateful for the offer, but, “No. I’m the only one she’ll talk to these days.”

It was true, but that didn’t make it any less difficult. Fiona was many things, but reasonable and level headed weren’t among them.

“Carrie tells me she’s almost done with her training. I could put in a call,” suggested Ray. Michael would very much like to solely rely on Carrie – Fiona’s bomb-making apprentice – but not just yet.

“She’s done when Fiona says she’s ready, and not before.” As much as Michael didn’t want to deal with Fiona and her current brand of crazy, he wanted to go around Fi to her half-trained apprentice, even less. Fiona was doing him a favour by training Carrie at all, and Michael didn’t want to mess with that. He’d put enough work into finding Carrie in the first place – someone who would appreciate Fiona’s skills and be willing to learn from her, while maintaining a steady head as she was taught explosives and tactics from an ex-IRA guerilla with multiple psychological issues, most of which revolved around Michael.

Michael knew the only reason Fiona had agreed, beyond her instant fascination with the younger woman, was her desire to screw with him in any way possible, such as brainwashing his chosen trainee into her world of explosions, sex and mild insanity. He’d stacked the deck in his favour, however, by training Carrie himself before even introducing her to Fiona. She knew her position was as a pawn between Fiona and Michael, but didn’t let that affect her desire to learn, or her loyalty to Michael.

“I’ll go talk to her tonight. Send some of the boys on recon – see if this can be an easy grab and go without throwing our weight around,” continued Michael. His guys were becoming well known in the area for security, problem solving and scavenging in the abandoned areas, but he didn’t want to become too well known. “And talk to Sam. I think he has a contact or two in that area.”

The new Miami area had built back up fairly quickly, rebuilding internally and externally. There was a city council and sector heads, as well as a police force that was really more military than civilian. Miami was taking care of itself pretty well, the community coalescing and coming together.

Michael and his guys were not the police or any kind of authority, but more along the lines of a militia. Sort of. They kept the extreme elements from becoming a problem, and kept the criminal underground from taking over. They went where official police couldn’t, and did what no one else could do.

It also hadn’t been his choice, either. The remnants of the US government were comprised of officials who had been overseas at the time of the quarantine, or in Washington and were immune. There really weren’t a lot, and not nearly enough to successfully govern what was left of the US.

But they had the technology to keep in touch, and that is what they did. Michael had gotten a call from the current President, and had been persuaded to take on the role of their eyes and ears in Florida. He was, essentially, every lettered agency in the country, and all the military services, in one neat little package.

It was a role he didn’t necessarily want, but couldn’t find a good enough excuse to not take it. And based on the words and reports of several former handlers and fellow spies, the burn notice was tossed in the trash and ignored.

So really, he didn’t have an excuse to say no.

~!~

Beyond the odd random survivor, the pattern was unmistakable. Entire neighbourhoods died within days, but left large portions of families intact. One of the few doctors still around had tried to explain why some families were untouched, others lost only a few, while most were completely wiped out. It had something to do with recessive genes and how many of the parents had them; like blue eyes – the mother may have them, but not every child would. The same went for genetic immunity.

It was the ‘odd random survivor’ that clued Michael into another facet of natural immunity, when you looked at them as a whole. Ignoring his own well being, he looked at Fiona and Sam, who were both fine. Oleg was good, and so were a number of his staff. Many of the workers at foreign embassies and consulates were healthy, as were former and current soldiers from any country. Refugees from Africa and Asia and South America survived, while police officers, paramedics and school teachers died by the handful.

To Michael, the answer was as obvious as Bermuda shorts in the middle of Oslo in winter.

He’d served in over thirty countries, and passed through more than twice that; he’d gotten food poisoning or some variation on five different continents; he’d been vaccinated against every disease known to man, and a few they’d made up. He’d walked through the swamps that time forgot, and come out the other side with nothing more than a hatred of damp and humid climates, and apparently a first rate immune system.

Others like him - like Fiona and Sam and a hundred others - had the same robust immune system, if not acquired in the exact same way. They’d all been to places where hygiene was a suggestion, and you were lucky if dysentery was all you came back with. Knife fights in dirty alleys, bullet patch jobs with whiskey and tweezers – compare that to a society grown complacent in their antibacterial world, where germs were the enemy and every food was sanitized and sterilized to purity.

The soccer mom down the street with a pristine, germ-free house never stood a chance, and they died by the tens of thousands in a matter of weeks.

Then Canada closed their borders.

~!~

Michael stepped into the club and let the noise and music wash over him. It still amazed him that even with the country in ruins and countless lives lost and destroyed, people still found time to go drinking and dancing.

Not that here was there for the alcohol or the music. Scanning the club, Michael found Fiona fairly quickly, her table the centre of a lot of attention. Male attention. A blonde girl stood just behind her, catching Michael’s eye as he made his way over. Carrie nodded slightly in greeting, but that was all. She had a role to play, and this was not the time to get chummy with Fiona’s ex.

“Michael!” greeted Fiona from amidst her entourage of muscled admirers. She had one hand on one guys neck, a leg trapping a second man in place – not like he was objecting – and a mixed drink in her other hand.

“Fi. Made some friends, I see,” he said, plastering his fake and congenial smile on his face. Fiona would see through it, but none of the idiots at the table would.

“Well, you can’t expect me to sit alone in a dark apartment and brood, now can you?” she asked pointedly.

“Can we talk?” he asked politely.

“We’re talking now, Michael,” Fiona smiled back, taking another sip from her drink.

He modified his question to, “Alone.”

“But I’m having such a wonderful time with my new friends,” she pouted, twirling her glass.

“Fi,” he prodded, before wincing and adding, “Please.”

“Oh, all right, Michael,” she acquiesced, waving away her grumbling entourage. A quick look over her shoulder sent Carrie away as well, and Michael didn’t know whether that was a good thing or not.

“What do you want?” she asked when the table had cleared.

“Are you ever going to stop being mad at me?” he asked, honestly curious about the answer.

“Michael, I’m not mad at you,” she told him, and he let the surprise show on his face. She’d been aiming pointed barbs at him for the past year – he was just happy she wasn’t also aiming a gun.

“I’m mad at myself,” she added, not able to meet his eyes.

“Fi, what-?”

“Michael,” she interrupted, her hand gently covering his mouth. “I’m mad at myself for lying to myself for so long.”

She still wouldn’t meet his eyes, and that bothered him more than he cared to admit.

“Before this, you were so focused on the whole burn notice thing, that there didn’t seem to be any room for anyone else on your priority list,” she confessed, finally meeting his eyes. “And I could deal with that, really I could. You’re happiest where you’re working, doing your spy stuff, whether it’s for the US government, to deal with the burn notice, or just helping random people along the way.”

Michael didn’t know what to say, because he’d never looked at it like that. He did what he had to to complete missions and objectives, and the burn notice just became another mission, and the side jobs were just that, side jobs. It didn’t occur to him to figure out if he was happy or not happy, because it was what he did, and when he got burned, he just continued doing what he knew how to do.

“But then this happened,” she said, waving a hand in the air to mean the whole biological apocalypse thing. “And I started to think, and hope, that things would be different. The burn notice didn’t matter any more, and your life of international espionage had been shut down, and I convinced myself that we could start again.”

“Fi. I-“ again, she interrupted him with a finger on his lips.

“Instead, you jump back in at the first opportunity, and I realized that I’d been fooling myself. The job is all you’ll ever be, Michael, at least until you want more. And I don’t think you will, not for awhile.”

Michael didn’t say anything as her fingers slipped away from his lips, just stared at her until she had to look away.

“I don’t … think about the future, Fi,” he said, pulling the words out. “I’ve never thought beyond the next mission.”

“I don’t talk about the past, and I don’t think about the future,” he confessed. Each word hurt as it came out, but Fiona deserved these words from him. “Thinking about the future means I would have to want something, and that’s always been dangerous for me.”

Michael watched her put her glass on the table, her eyes still staring unseeing onto the dark dance floor.

“You’re the only person who’s ever tempted me to think about the future,” he confided. His voice was soft, but he could see the impact of the words and wanted to apologize for them.

He watched as she swallowed and pursed her lips, and could almost feel the cool mask of a business woman slide back into place.

“So what do you want, Michael,” she asked him coolly, as if the past few minutes had never happened.

“We’re low on supplies,” he said, his own mask falling in to place. He wouldn’t pursue the conversation any more than she would, especially not here. Maybe not ever. But a truce of sorts had been reached, and that was enough for tonight.

“Same products?” she asked him.

“Same products, same price, same location. Exactly the same as last time – well, mostly,” Michael agreed, hoping that this time she wouldn’t attach a special present that left him covered in pink dye for three days.

“Do you like purple, instead?” she teased him, and he made a mental note to have some of the guys go over the merchandise from top to bottom, while he kept a safe distance.

“How long?” he asked her, refusing to give in. He was sure she had pictures somewhere, but he wasn’t about to make it easier for her to torment him.

“Three days. Four if I let Carrie help.”

“How’s she doing?” he wondered, nodding in acceptance of the terms. Fiona would contact him when it was ready for delivery.

“She’s getting better,” was all Fiona would say, which frustrated him. “Why didn’t you go straight to Carrie?”

“Is she ready?” countered Michael, ready for this. It was the same conversation he’d had with Ray earlier, and wasn’t surprised that Fiona was bringing it up too.

“No.”

“Then I’m coming to you,” he told her, gratified to see her smile slightly at that.

“Very good, Michael.”

Rolling his eyes at her ‘good dog’ praise, Michael stood up to leave.

“Later, Fi.”

It was only later, when he got a call from the team outside the mob bar, that he realized that talking to Fi was going to be the easy part of his night.

~!~

Canada closed their border, with Mexico following within hours. Things were really bad if the easy going populace up north had put up a twenty foot tall fence and instituted a shoot on sight order.

Other industrialized nations were taking similar stances, quarantining anyone who had been in the US in the previous months. The task was actually easier than anticipated, as most global travel had ground to a halt.

Lines of communication began to go down, as did utilities like power and water, as the people who ran them died fast and silently.

~!~

“I hate the fucking mob,” groused Sam, rearranging the ice pack on the back of his head.

“They a little too rough for you, Navy boy?” called out Ray from across the room, the amusement plain to hear.

“How badly were you blown?” interrupted Michael, forcing Sam to settle for a glare in Ray’s direction.

“Managed to turn it into a ‘concerned friend of the family’ thing, but I can’t go back without risking a bullet,” admitted Sam, sounding as frustrated as Michael felt. Sam’s unexpected conversation with Melina at the bar had turned bad quickly, leaving Sam with more bruises than grey hairs.

“How bad is it?” asked Michael.

“The situation? Bad,” Sam said. “The scam they pulled on Melina is classic. A simple deal that turns into blackmail and forced prostitution.”

“And you’re sure she’s not there willingly?” Michael asked, just for clarity’s sake. He didn’t doubt Sam’s intel, he just wanted to be sure he knew everything Sam did.

“No. Definitely not. It’s the look in her eyes, Mike. In most of the girls’ eyes.” Michael nodded, because he understood what Sam was saying. There was a certain dead look in someone’s eyes when they’ve reached the point where they’re empty and broken. These past few years have been enough for anyone to crack, but these girls – and there were plenty – hadn’t decided on this path in life. If Michael had to guess, he’d say that most of them were like Melina. They’d needed something from one of the guys, thinking all they’d have to do is sleep with them once, maybe twice, and it would be over. But it was never over, and before the girls realized what was happening, they found themselves in the mob-run bordello. If they were ‘lucky’, they might catch the eye of one of the guys early on, and get taken out to be a girlfriend or mistress – like Melina had.

It was still rape, no matter how much they tried to pretty it up, and it made Michael want to put a bullet in every single one of them.

“You know, they’ve de-evolved as an organization. Fifteen years ago, something like this never would have happened. They stuck to money laundering and extortion, and had rules and order,” Sam ranted, personally offended by the let down of today’s criminals, as always. “Now, they might as well be Middle East warlords or Mexican slave traders.”

Michael refrained from mentioning that organized crime had expanded to several different venues over the years, one of which was the sex trade.

“Does your contact know where the girls are being kept?” Michael asked, a plan slowly forming in his mind. It was big and involved lots of explosions, but was unfortunately necessary. Rescuing Melina would fulfill his duty to Nadia and his mother, but his conscience wouldn’t let him leave the situation the way it currently stood. The mob had become a little too big and sure of itself, and Michael felt it was his duty to keep them humble and small. He didn’t delude himself into thinking he could get rid of them completely.

The criminal underground, like nature, abhorred a vacuum. If there was no mob, something else – probably worse – would just pop up in its place.

“Yeah. We goin’ after them?” asked Sam, sounding less pissed and more eager. Behind him, Michael could feel Ray perk up at the thought of widespread destruction, and wondered if he should find some knew friends to play with, who wouldn’t encourage his bad behaviour.

“I think it’s time we introduced ourselves to the neighbours,” he said in exaggerated cheer. “We’ll need four or five teams, lots of explosives and ammo, and a bus or two.” Michael thought for a moment, adding, “And tell my mother the clinic’s going to be getting a lot of female customers tomorrow night.”

Sam smiled the way he always smiled whenever Michael was planning mayhem, and even Ray was close to grinning like an idiot in anticipation.

Seriously. Bad influences. The both of them.

“And I’ll need to find a new suit.”

~!~

Thirty six days after the government officially recognized that there was an epidemic, every country in the world – even those in no way connected with the UN – voted to place the US under emergency quarantine.

Nothing in and nothing out, unless you wanted to be shot down or blown up. It was the first time in history that everyone had put aside their differences to face a greater threat, even if only for the hour it took to sign the resolution that sealed the US’s fate.

Michael watched on one of the few remaining news channels as the Secretary General of the UN made the announcement from Geneva, holding a document signed by every head of state – be they democratically elected presidents or prime ministers, hierarchical queens or emperors, or self-proclaimed warlords or dictators – that essentially turned the US into a no-man’s land.

The aid relief stopped when the relief workers died as quickly as their patients, but the disease raged on through the country, cutting a swath through every town in every state.

Cuba was decimated in a matter of weeks, as they’d opened their arms to their lost brothers and welcomed them home.

A few radio frequencies were still broadcasting, telling anyone who was still listening of the bonfires that raged in Havana as they tried to burn the disease out before it took them all.

Michael watched the black ocean horizon at night, imagining that could see the red-orange glow in the distance as the small nation of Cuba was fire bombed by the new Republic of South America. He hoped to God they wouldn’t hit Miami next.

~!~

The Ono Bar was, thankfully, nothing like a standard Italian mob-run bar. There were still greasy guys in suits pawing at barely clothed – and barely legal – girls, wearing shoulder holsters like they were big time feds, but this was no dim lit restaurant/bar where wiseguys could relax and plan their next business enterprise.

This was a dance club, with high ceilings, loud music and VIP rooms. Not to mention lots and lots of extra people. Luckily, the extra people weren’t carrying extra party favours, which saved a lot of time in the end.

Michael stayed in the shadows near the door, watching as his guys (and a few girls) moved through the crowds seamlessly, melting into the scenery.

One good thing about walking into a business run by egotistical thugs, was no metal detector at the door. It wouldn’t do to see so many people either setting it off or walking around it – paying customers, especially in today’s environment, got nervous at blatant security holes like that. But _no_ metal detector – well, that wasn’t even noticed enough to comment on.

However, it also let Michael’s people wander around the club armed, taking up positions at exits and near certain priority targets.

A tap on Michael’s shoulder let him know that Ray was there, and that everything was going according to plan. The guards outside and at the door have been neutralized, and the line of waiting customers has been sent home.

A nod, and the signal is sent out. Within seconds, there was screaming and shouting, even a few bullets – which prompted more screaming. Within minutes, everything was dead quiet, with the exception of a few quiet whimpers. Someone had helpfully shut off the music but not the strobe lights, and Michael felt the unnatural silence slide across his skin.

Stepping away from the wall, Michael could hear his footsteps as he crossed the floor, Ray a silent shadow at his back. Sam was running the other half of the mission – getting the girls out of the abandoned hotel where they were being kept in. Michael wanted to hear what was going on, but Ray had the com and would tell him if something wasn’t going to plan. He needed his whole attention right here, right now.

“Get the lights on,” Michael ordered, unwilling to finish this in the dark. His people were good, but they were at a disadvantage in unfamiliar territory.

A few minutes later, the lights came on and Michael could see the faces of the terrified party goers as they crouched on the floor.

“Secure and separate them,” he added, and watched as his people used his favourite brand of cable ties to restrain the mob guys and their security, moving them over to a cleared corner of the club.

Michael turned his attention to the VIP room up and off to the side. Up there was where the Big Boss spent his nights, surrounded by his lieutenants and their girlfriends and mistresses. Wives were left at home with the children.

Tonight, the VIP room contained four men and three women - one of whom was the missing Melina – surrounded by four of Michael’s own men.

As Michael entered, he focused on the oldest man there, smiled genially and took a seat across from him.

“Mr Balantine. A pleasure to finally meet you,” greeted Michael him.

“I would return the pleasantries, but I find I failed to get your name.” Louis Balantine was a crafty old criminal, and the fact that he’d remained the head of the organization, or rather, family, throughout the recent upheavals, told Michael a lot.

Didn’t mean Michael wasn’t still going to take him down a little tonight. He’d just respect Balantine in the morning, is all.

“Oh, my name’s not important. But what I want to talk to you about is,” Michael countered.

A jerk of his head had Ray and another guy pulling the women from around the table and sending them through the doors, back into the club. A few muffled words later, and the noise level increased as dozens of people tried to walk-not-run out of the club.

“Just making sure our chat is a little more private,” Michael reassured Balantine nonchalantly.

Behind him, he could hear the muffle-thumps of bodies being thrown back to the floor, and assumed that some of the cable-tied wiseguys had tried something that had failed. It probably had something to do with their girlfriends being sent out the back door instead of the front, to the waiting bus that held Sam and the other women he had freed that night.

“You dare come into my place of business and disrespect me?” threatened Balantine, putting power behind his words. Michael gave him points for effort, but he’d been threatened by Afghani warlords and KGB interrogators that far outclassed Balantine.

“Actually, I’m here to tell you to revise your business practices,” said Michael. “I don’t take kindly to having sex slaves being bought and traded in my city.”

Balantine stared at him for a moment, but Michael didn’t let himself so much as twitch. Neither did any of his guys, though two of Balantine’s men started to fidget after too much silence. It was an unspoken game of dominance that Michael had clearly won, and Balantine knew that. Michael had better people than Balantine.

“You want a cut. Is that it?” Balantine finally asked.

“If only it were that simple,” grinned Michael, settling down into his chair. Reaching under his jacket, he pulled out the Glock 9mm and laid it on the table, watching as each man stiffened instinctively. Balantine kept it hidden the best, though.

He might have made a good spy, in another life.

“I don’t want to kill you,” said Michael, trailing a finger along the barrel. “Right now, you keep the rest of these guys in line. From what I’ve been able to gather, you don’t have a clear successor, which means that if you die, I’ll end up having to deal with whichever idiot manages to make it to Boss. And they’re all idiots, but you know that already.”

“Like I said, I don’t want to kill you. It’ll end up being more work for me in the end, and quite frankly, I have more important things to do than babysit wiseguys that don’t know any better than to stick their fingers into electrical outlets,” Michael explained, watching Balantine closely as he relaxed more with each word.

“Then what is it you want?” asked Balantine, tilting his head back.

“I already have what I want,” said Michael. “What I came here for tonight was to give you a warning.”

_Boom!_

Really, he couldn’t have timed it better himself, feeling the building shake, hearing the glasses rattle on the table.

“That was the hotel over on Vine,” Michael explained to the twitchy wiseguys who were looking more spooked by the second. Balantine, Michael noticed, had gotten over his instant of shock quickly. Michael was mildly impressed.

He met Balantine’s eyes, making sure the other man understood just how dangerous he was. The message seemed to get across, as Balantine tilted his head in concession.

“You don’t want me to have to come back,” he warned, getting up to leave.

Michael picked up the Glock and paused. Remembering Nadia crying at her mother’s bedside the day before, he put a bullet through Melina’s ‘boyfriend’s’ shoulder.

“Next time, find a girlfriend the old fashioned way.”

“I remember hearing a story,” Balantine’s voice stopped him from turning to leave. “A story from Before, about a man who would help people with certain problems.”

Michael kept his face blank.

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” he told Balantine. By the twitch of the other man’s lips, the unspoken _’Don’t become my problem again’_ was clearly heard.

Michael turned and left before anyone could get any other ideas. And the whimpering was getting on his nerves.

All told, the evening had been successful. Though next time, he was going to be the one to blow up the building.

Couldn’t let Sam have all the fun.

~!~

After they buried Nate – one of the unlucky non-blue-eyes – the world seemed to stop. The death tolls had started to sharply decline, though no one knew if it was the infection burning itself out or that there were fewer people for it to kill.

Then the day came where there were no new cases, and everyone held their breath. The population of Miami was living like the survivors of a nuclear holocaust; huddled together for warmth and protection, armed against intruders in the dark, living on non-perishable foods raided from every store in the city.

Battery powered radios were tuned in to static 24/7 and every television showed snow. The survivors grew depressed and lethargic, even as the bright Miami sun shone down every day.

Then one day, there were voices on the radio. A local station had managed to get minimal power, and was broadcasting. It was only an hour a day, but it was enough. The people of Miami became energized with new purpose. They could rebuild; they could live again.

Soon, power was restored to certain areas of the city, a council had been set up to help organize the people, and laughter and smiles were common on the streets.

Most people moved into the core of the city, to limit utilities and be closer to other survivors.

Life moved on.

~!~

The tinny ring of his cell phone interrupted Michael’s night off. The guys were loitering around, swapping stories with Sam, and Michael was just enjoying the company, the food and the taste of non-crappy beer.

“Hello,” he answered jauntily, his good mood carrying over.

“Nice to hear you’re having a good time,” greeted a low, willowy voice. Bolting upright, Michael managed to get the attention of the entire room.

“Carla. Why am I not surprised you’re still alive,” he said, looking pointedly at Sam. A jerk of his head had Sam pulling their computer tech over to the command centre lining the far wall, whispering urgently too low for Michael to hear. The rest of the guys were watching him closely, unsure of the situation.

“Ohh,” she purred in his ear. “I missed you too, Michael.”

“I’m not sure if ‘missed’ is the correct term here,” he replied, wondering how long he would need to keep her on the line.

“Now, now. There’s no need to be rude.”

“Oh, I think there’s _definitely_ a need to be rude,” he shot back, standing up. A glance at Sam showed him that everything was going well on that end.

“Michael, that’s no way to talk to your friend. I’m just trying to help you out of a bad situation.”

“A ‘bad situation’?” he asked incredulously. “Are we talking about when you burned me, or when you threatened to hurt my family and friends if I didn’t work for you?”

He could feel the rising rumble of his guys, and drew strength from that. The bonds of family and friendship were more important than ever in today’s world, and threatening those bonds was a surefire way to get on people’s bad sides.

“I’m talking about living in the ruins of Miami, Michael. Wouldn’t you like to get out and do other things? We have quite the open market right now, just waiting for the right person.” She was wheedling and cajoling, trying to manipulate him into something, but he wasn’t biting. Despite her training and experience, Carla had nothing on Madeline Westen when it came to making him do things he didn’t want to do.

Sam got his attention, and Michael saw that they’d managed to trace the call back to a suburb of New York. Michael felt untold glee fill him at the news.

“Now, why would I want to leave Miami?” he asked her, writing a quick note to Sam while he talked. _Call Davis._ His counterpart in New York would love a chance at Carla, having been in the same boat as Michael. Most of the good agents left in the US had been in the same boat as Michael. “I have the sun, the girls and the parties, and no one coming after me. It’s hard to beat that.”

“Don’t try to tell me your aren’t bored, Michael,” she continued, making Michael frown. “You’re not the kind of person for sitting around and helping little old ladies plant gardens.”

“And what makes you think I bother with that? This is a great vacation – or retirement – whichever you prefer,” Michael was just talking at this point, buying himself time as he tried to piece the information together. Her sly comments, designed to dig and tunnel into his mind were falling way off target, which wasn’t like her.

Then it all fit.

Carla didn’t know what he was doing. She was relying on very little, and very bad, intel to help her gain leverage over Michael.

“You weren’t meant to lay around all day in the sun, Michael.”

Tired of this line of questioning, Michael got straight to the point, which would hopefully get her out of his life for good.

“So, how much of your organization did you loose in the quarantine?” he asked her, suddenly serious. “Considering most of your assets and power was based in the US system, I’m betting it was a whole lot.”

“Michael, Michael, Michael. It’s always so amusing when you-“

“I’m not done!” he snapped, tired of listening. “In fact, I’m guessing you lost just about everyone. I know this, because if you had even passable intelligence, you’d know exactly where I am right now, and at least some idea of what I’m doing.”

“I don’t-“

“Don’t quite your day job Carla,” he added, locking eyes with Sam. “And stay out of Miami. I can guarantee I won’t be good for your health.”

Snapping the phone shut, Michael listened to the complete silence in the room for a moment before blinking. Looking at Sam, who was smiling in wicked glee, Michael finally cracked, giving a shout of victory.

He may have just pissed her off even more, and if Davis didn’t nab her and get whatever he could out of her, there might be some problems down the road, but at the moment he was flying high.

The end of the world was turning out to be better than he thought.

END


End file.
